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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27363202">all's fair</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomBowline/pseuds/TomBowline'>TomBowline</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Terror (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Canon, Seduction Turnabout, aww did someone accidentally experience a feeling?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:15:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,901</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27363202</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomBowline/pseuds/TomBowline</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The caulker's mate on Terror finds a familiar face onboard, and decides to rekindle their partnership. He gets a bit more than he bargained for.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cornelius Hickey/Thomas Jopson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Hickeyshipping 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>all's fair</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/gifts">attheborder</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i can only describe the tone of this fic as "backstreets by bruce springsteen, but evil".</p><p>additional content warnings in end notes.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It took him longer than expected to find Jopson alone.</p><p>He had thought immediately, when he’d first seen the man - face turned sidewise to examine a china serving dish, almost unremarkable until he turned just so and displayed a perfect view of that once-memorized profile - that this was a boon indeed. It was almost always nice to see a familiar face, especially when that face was attached to a man like Thomas Jopson. For they had been as thick as thieves, once upon a time, he and Tommy. He remembered with arresting clarity the way his hands and lips formed round a deftly rolled cigarette, the cut of his voice and the light skip of his footfall across the cobbles, the green eyes as pretty as a girl’s and the nose that stuck out between the hat and scarf his mother had made him for the wintertime. He remembered also the wonderful quantity and quality of the trouble they would get into, the quickness of Tommy’s mind that had gotten them into and out of scrapes in short order. </p><p>They had been all but inseparable until they both had got too old for cleaving to the hip of another boy like a brother, and too much beleaguered on accounts of family (on Tommy’s side) and finance (on his own) to spend their days in the happy delinquency of youth. Now, it seemed, Tommy had applied his keen intelligence to the task of nicening his voice and manner in the pursuit of service. He felt a pang of disappointment - he had always thought, somehow, that such a lad was destined for greater things than blacking the boots of some sour old moneybags - but it was not long dwelt upon, for the manner of this service presented to him yet another advantage. The captain’s steward - was there a single man better placed to feed him useful information? He could not think of one. He could not, in fact, think of any better partner to recruit on the whole than Thomas Jopson. </p><p>It was a disappointment, therefore, when he was unable to move things along as quickly as he would have liked. It had been months, now, and though he was certain that a steward spent much of most days in solitary labor, he could not for the life of him contrive to come upon Jopson in such a state. Whenever Jopson was at a lonesome task such as laundry or polishing, he had duty owing and was trying not to make a cock-up of tasks that (from the reactions of his superiors when he made a mistake) he knew ought to be simple. The man seemed always to be in conversation with someone or another when he was in the mess - and it would not do to approach him in a group, theirs had been a solitary bond and it would do well to remain so - and would depart swiftly when his meal was done. He was certain that Jopson had seen him about, but those eyes always seemed to slide over him, never catching on his face. This, he reasoned, only meant he might need to be worked on a bit. The problem was finding the right moment to do the working.</p><p>Finally, miraculously, in the capricious light of early September, he slunk past the open doorway of the pantry to see Jopson within, polishing an obscene quantity of silver with the assiduity of the finest craftsman. Canvas apron, grey-smudged gloves and blackened rag, tongue between bared teeth. Alone.</p><p>He stepped into the doorway, settled there, waited. Gazed at Jopson openly, taking in the man he hadn’t seen in long years. He was more filled out now, looking less the starved cat he had been. Taller, too, if that were possible - perhaps it was only the distance of time that made him think so. But Jopson’s essentials were all the same. The tiny birthmark on his cheek, the single lock of pitch-dark hair falling stubbornly onto his brow, the keen intensity of his gaze where it scrutinized a dark spot on the sugar-bowl - the man he saw now was almost dizzyingly like to the boy of long ago. And, he was certain, that man would be just as willing to fall in with him as the boy had been.</p><p>“Yes, Mr Hickey?”</p><p>Jopson had not even looked up. He felt stung, just a bit, at the smoothness with which that name slipped off Jopson’s tongue - as if they were strangers. As if Jopson had never known his true name. But he pushed the feeling aside. If he had to squirm under Jopson’s skin to get back into his heart, well, he was good at fitting through small spaces. </p><p>“I thought we could do some catching up,” he said, tipping himself into the little space and closer to the well-combed form of the man who sat within. He slid the door closed with his foot, dipped his head down to Jopson’s ear. “Tommy.”</p><p>Jopson put aside his polishing work and rose to face him - nearly a head over him, yes, how had he forgotten? - with an impassive stare. “That’s Mr Jopson, if you please, Mr Hickey. Thomas, if you must.”</p><p>He was unswayed. He grasped one of Jopson’s hands in his own, stroking his thumb up under the glove that covered those clever fingers. His skin was warm, soft at the wrist and rougher in the palm from lye and rope. He always had been a hard worker. “You used to let me call you Tommy,” he smiled - a tease, aimed to call up regret or wistfulness in the man before him.</p><p>Jopson leaned in close then - yes, here it was - stopping just short of his ear. He could feel those lips at his cheek, soft and sure, as the man murmured, “You used to have another name as well. I think we’re past all that, don’t you?”</p><p>He might have left off there, might have recognized the wall he was up against and beat a temporary retreat, but— His thumb was still on Jopson’s wrist, Jopson’s mouth was still at his ear. He could feel the hot drumbeat of his pulse and the huff of his just-unsteady breathing. There was a way forward yet, but he would not get there with this snapping and circling. He would need to go for the throat. </p><p>Quickly as a stone arcing through the air to smash a window, nimbly as a young man slipping in through the shattered pane, he slipped his face to the side and bit into the red bow of Jopson’s mouth with his own. For a long moment there was nothing - then there was a hand in his hair, a sigh in his mouth, a tongue at his teeth, <em> yes</em>. Here he was. He dropped Jopson’s hand, got his hands around his hips (not so slim as when they last were here, not so bony), made to turn him round. But Jopson planted his feet and tutted through his teeth (straight in front, but he knew there was a back one missing). Grasped his wrist - glove having been stripped off this directing hand by those straight front teeth - and pulled his hand to where Jopson’s cock sat half-hard in his trousers. Grinned.</p><p>“Did you think I’d bend over for you that easily?” Jopson’s voice was unbalancing in its crispness. He had, in fact, thought that very thing, and it must have shown a bit on his face. He received a curt shake of the head, a hand up on his back pressing down. “You have to earn it first.”</p><p>Right. It wasn’t something he was keen on, really, but if that was what it took to reconcile the two of them, he would oblige. The pantry was small, and most of the free legroom was currently occupied by silver dinnerware; still, small spaces, et cetera. He folded himself in by Jopson’s feet, poised smartly in polished boots. Something to strive for, he thought; throw off his footwork, have him scuffing the floor. </p><p>He gazed up at Jopson with the lidded eyes the men liked to see - then changed tack, abruptly, made his lips curl and his eyes twinkle. Made himself a fellow, a mate, rather than playing at the temptress. He made his face glow with the insinuation of some great joke, like there always had been between them. Nothing heavy, nothing of the world creeping in between - just them two. Jopson smiled back, dimples and a slight pout like he had seen a hundred times before, but something new as well. Something he didn’t recognize, smooth like glass. It set him off-kilter somewhere inside of himself, so he turned downwards to the day’s work.</p><p>Unbuttoning Jopson’s pressed wool trousers in the little storeroom, with the weak light of whichever-watch filtering down from above, he was reminded like a knife in his ribs of the first time they had done this. For it had been the first time, for them both; tucked away in a damp old shed, drooling on each other artlessly, hands fumbling and breath coming short. It had all been so much then, so emotional. Joyful, really, when there was precious little joy to be had. As he reached deft fingers into Jopson’s drawers to draw out his prick, as he listened for the gasp-whine-huff of old and heard only silence, he felt that Jopson had been right: they had, both of them, moved beyond such joys as that.</p><p>He took Jopson into his mouth with only minimal ceremony; this may not have been his favorite fleshly sin, but he knew how to commit it. He felt him harden on his tongue (not so quickly as he had been used to, but to the same slender ruddy end), felt him leak the acrid taste that would coat his mouth for the better part of a week when they were done here. All to a good purpose, he reminded himself. And there was pleasure in seeing the result of his work: Jopson was silent still, but biting his lip with the tip of one sharp little tooth, tongue probing the side of his own mouth like a mirror - as above, so below. And below, indeed, Jopson’s cock was twitching in a manner hardly indifferent; he had to focus not to choke, but he had had quite enough practice, knew enough to be able to let the sensation slide ‘round him like a post in the river. Or in this case, he supposed, he was the river and Jopson the post.</p><p>It grew dull quickly, in any case, whether he fancied himself a post or a river or a damned sewage barge. He was thankful when Jopson tapped at his cheek (so genteel, so polite - the first time, he had gasped a hitching laugh and mussed his hair shoving him off, whispered <em> not yet, good lord</em>) to call him off. More thankful still, when Jopson pulled trousers to knees and turned to face the wall.</p><p>He cleared his throat, sat up on his knees to stand - then thought better of it, dipping in to nose down Jopson’s fundament, through the damp hairy warmth of his crack to the hole that sat waiting to welcome him back in. When he spoke, he knew Jopson would be able to feel his breath over the dusky little furl of his cunt. “Have we any oil, Mr Jopson?”</p><p>There was a gasp after all, then, hitched and breathy. “This is your seduction,” he said at length, “I should think such procurements would fall to you.” Still, he stood up on tiptoe and rummaged about the top shelf for a moment, then tipped a rather large tin decanter into the outstretched hand behind him.</p><p>“Ta.” He left a parting kiss on Jopson’s hole (another gasp, and a sort of full-body shuddering twitch) and set to work. Two fingers, straight away; the clench and stretch of Jopson’s body trying to accommodate him was intoxicating. A third, and he stood for better leverage. All was slickness now, dripping down Jopson’s crack and over his bollocks, which he gave a cursory squeeze with the hand not working its inexorable way inside him. All was heat and the heaviness of Jopson’s breathing where his face was pressed to his sleeve. He began to push back, ground out, “I’m sure you realize I don’t have all day to spare,” and fine, as he wished. Cock slicked, hips pressed slowly but surely in in in. The first time they had done this he had slipped about the entryway for mortifying moments. He was through with mortification now. It was all desire, in one way or another, everything in his head, and it left no room for shame. </p><p>The first time had not felt like this. The last time had not felt like this. The impossible bonfire of Jopson’s body was burning brighter now than it ever had and he was there to see it, to close his eyes and watch the outline of the flame burn into his brain. To clutch at Jopson’s hips and thrust hard into the heart of the blaze. </p><p>“Hm,” Jopson sighed, and he realized his concentration was slipping - getting lost in the tide of his own pleasure, that raw nerve inside him that was singing out in a harmony quite rare. “Haven’t changed that much, have you.”</p><p>“Hmm?” His hands were slipping in the sweat, gripping all red marks and white knuckles. </p><p>“You are aware, I imagine.” Clench, release. Flames licking higher. “That there is a spot within a man.” He rolled his eyes in the safety of Jopson’s turned head. “That makes for greater pleasure than simply being rammed into.”</p><p>His face grew hot without his leave. He tried to fold the feeling up smaller, but it stayed, billowing out inside the hungry cavern of his chest. He was good at it, most of the time, quite good. Didn’t follow how he’d get partners otherwise. Only he had let himself get carried away, and now Jopson would think he <em> wasn’t </em> good - he couldn’t have that. He held his breath to ground himself, pulled out slow and deliberate. Relished in the obscene sound it made, the sound of what he was doing to this man who had brought himself so high, the captain’s steward, pressed trousers and a clipped solicitous voice. A reminder, he thought. <em> Your life started with me. </em> It wasn’t quite enough to quell the embarrassment.</p><p>When he drove back in and over that spot in Jopson with a renewed focus, he wanted a gasp, a moan, a drawn-out uncouth sign of how he was undoing him. He wanted, possessively, incandescently, for the pleasure he was giving to be worth more than Jopson’s job and reputation; he wanted to drive the man to injudiciousness. All he received was a sigh, a slight shift, and a muttered “That’s a bit better, then.” Christ, this man. He kept on him, trying to find a rhythm that would suit them both - reached round to where Jopson’s cock swung heavy between his trim thighs and pulled at it loose-fisted and damp. And here, here - still quiet, maddeningly so, but rocking his hips between prick and hand minutely. A little gasp, a spurt of hot into his palm, a spasm round his prick. </p><p>They continued in near-silence; he subsisted on the sucking obscene sound of their fucking and the flush he could see creeping up Jopson’s neck past his high and proper collar. Jopson was quiet even when he came, letting loose only a long hiss of air along with what spurted onto the pantry wall to drip down. As he drove in shallowly, seeking friction to the exclusion of all else, he could not help remembering again - Tommy never used to be able to keep quiet. He would have to bite his sleeve, or be kissed through his crisis. And recalling the yielding softness of that mouth, the writhing responsive quiver of this same body that accepted him now so artfully, he felt the rushing surge of blood and nerve as he emptied into that consuming heat.</p><p>Just as Jopson had provided the oil to make them dirty, he now produced a handkerchief to make them clean again. In the quiet rustling gap between obscene and presentable, there was the chance to widen the crack he had made: just a small thing, yet, smaller than he had reckoned on, but it could grow. He would start unobtrusively, with a question that could do no harm. Put him at ease, slide him into informancy. “I’ve heard talk of wintering over in the ice,” he said quietly, casually, watching Jopson’s back as he re-buttoned his braces. “Do you think there’s anything in it?”</p><p>Jopson turned to face him, displaying that close-lipped glassy smile again. “I’m afraid I really couldn’t say, Mr Hickey.”</p><p>He knew he shouldn’t push, shouldn’t attempt to pry the crevice wider. Had to. “But you must have heard something,” he pressed, giving an innocent little smile of his own. “Serving dinners, doing what you do for the captain and all.”</p><p>Jopson’s smile did not waver; he reached past him and slid the door open pointedly. “I think you ought to be going.” Then, with a sharp little curl to his mouth, he added: “But you’re welcome to come back next week and try again, if you like.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>additional content warnings: some non-explicit remembrances of Hickey and Jopson having sex as teenagers - didn't think it was explicit enough to tag underage, but bear that in mind if you're sensitive to that. also, very brief implication of sex work on Hickey's part.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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